From Rocket Launch to Orange Soda Kiss

We started our day like we often do—at 3:30 am. Otto’s early morning demand? “Iced cold juice,” of course, while he silently studied videos of airplane acrobatics and control centers like a tiny, focused flight commander.

As the sun rose over the East side of the island, he finally decided to open the water rocket I bought him five days ago. We assembled it together. And for the first time, he patiently followed instructions, understanding how to fill it halfway with water and add pressure. The launch was glorious—soaring over our fence and into the neighbor’s yard. The meltdown that followed, however, was less glorious. A full-volume protest that likely woke up half the block.

I thought maybe the tone of the day was already unraveling.

It was “beach school day,” and if you know, you know—my expectations were dialed way down.

We arrived early to set up before the group, and as we were packing up to leave the beach, Jess and her family passed us on the path. She gently said, “Goodbye guys, thank you,” clearly acknowledging the setup crew. As we walked up the path, Otto began waving at his shadow on the sand and echoing her goodbye in the same soft voice: “Goodbye guys, thank you.”

Then, by our car, we ran into (other) Jess. She was sitting in her front seat reading while Jaxson napped. She softly greeted him, “Hi Otto,” and he waved back and whispered “hi” in return. As we turned to leave, he once again gave a calm, thoughtful, “Goodbye guys, thank you.” It was like he'd been rehearsing that whole walk.

I was floored by his acknowledgment—by his ability to connect in his own way—and I could tell Jess felt it too.

By 10 a.m., I assumed Otto would crash, so I drove to Clements in hopes he’d fall asleep. No luck. But we did grab sushi (for me) and an orange soda (for him—always). Then I gave him a choice: “Do you want to go home or go to the airport?” He chose the airport with no hesitation.

We fell into our usual routine—greeting Chris with a snack, checking out the planes on the tarmac. Chris taught Otto a new term, “Jump Step,” which he filed away instantly like he always does.

Then we noticed a skydiver landing solo. “Look, he is diving—it’s one person,” Otto observed. He was right. It was a solo dive, not the tandem kind we usually see.

The diver’s name was Neil—an airplane mechanic who generously invited Otto into the hangar. Otto impressed him with his knowledge of airplane parts: the elevator on the tail, the flaps on the wings.

Neil showed him an altimeter and a new R22 helicopter, different from Keiran’s R44 Otto is used to. We counted six engine cylinders together. It was one of those moments where you feel time slow down and expand with wonder. I didn’t overstay our welcome—a crucial rule for repeat invites.

Then it was time to return to “beach school.” I always tell Otto, “We have to go clean up our school mess, and then we’ll go home—I promise.”

When we got back, families were still soaking in the sun. I let my guard down. Otto ate a peanut butter and jelly sandwich in his wagon—his safe space—and I dove into the water. Something about my joy must’ve sparked something in him because, without hesitation, he dropped his sandwich in the sand and ran in after me.

Then something magical happened. A few children started to swim over to us like little guppies. And Otto? He stayed happy. Regulated. Content to have swimmers swirling around him.

But these weren’t just any kids—they were like mermaids sent from the universe, gently coaxing him into social waters.

Lilly and Georgia approached with the kind of encouragement that felt innate, like they knew exactly how to meet him where he was. “Watch this, Otto.” “You’re doing great, Otto.” “Let’s jump together, Otto.” Their presence was pure sunshine. We played for an entire hour—splashing, laughing, moving in sync.

It felt like everything was going to be okay.

When it was time to clean up, Otto insisted on helping. This is new. He took the paint trays, dipped them into the ocean, and cleaned them without resistance, confusion, or a rush to escape. Just present. Just helping. I could breathe.

At 1:30 pm, I wasn’t ready to go home. So we made one last detour: crashing Alice’s nap time. Normally this is a boundary I hold tight, but something told me to push it.

At Kassia’s house, Otto met Eliza—a one-pound Yorkie with a fierce love for fetch. And something wild happened: Otto played with her. He acknowledged her, chased the ball, and laughed.

This child who never engages with animals was suddenly hyper-focused on puppy love, and I had a normal 15-20 minute adult conversation with Kassia.

Then came Alice. Jealous but sweet, she lured Otto into the playroom. “Otto, I have more toys over there.” He perked up and trotted after her. They played. Together. Like really played. Like truly noticed each other. It was the first time I saw Otto enjoy another child’s company in a genuine, carefree way.

And then, the grand finale: as we were leaving, Otto leaned in for a kiss from Alice.

And she let him! Orange soda lips and all. I nearly melted. My heart swelled with pride watching my son’s softness and affection blossom into boyhood.

Driving home, I called my husband. I was overwhelmed with happiness—the kind that takes over your whole body. The lows are low—brutally, isolatingly low. But the highs? These highs shake your soul. They remind you your surviving. They whisper, “Keep going.”

Keep following your gut.

Keep protecting him.

Keep being soft.

Keep being sensitive.

Keep listening.

Keep letting him lead.

Keep learning

Keep showing up.

Keep doing the hard work that made this day possible.

KEEP. GOING.

When we got home, we went out to the garden. Usually, Otto requires all of my attention—but today? He climbed his jungle gym in silence while I watered the garden, cleaned up balloon scraps, and tilted my face toward the last sliver of sun.

It was quiet. It was bittersweet.

These firsts—first launches, first group swims, first "real" playdates, first kisses—are not small. Not to us. They’re everything. Because when you’re raising a neurodivergent child, the wins don’t come easy. Most days are uphill. But days like this? They are proof.

Proof that all the love, patience, advocacy, and faith are carving a path forward. Slowly, but oh so beautifully.